Thursday, November 24, 2016

Leg One: Reciprocal Kindness

Many photos will document our trip to Pakistan, but the first and possibly most important adventure has no photo to prove it happened--just the imprint it left in my memory.

Leaving the country was a little more emotional than I
imagined it would be. Our final FaceTime call with the kids was rushed by an
unusually early boarding call for the plane. Between Brad’s stress of getting
us on the plane and my stress of leaving my babies, it was a perfect storm. I
walked toward the plane with tears streaming down my face, unable to avoid the
embarrassment as I took my seat. Brad purposely chose seats in front of each other
so that we could both sleep against windows during the thirteen-hour flight,
but sitting next to a stranger at that vulnerable moment made the tears stream
even faster.

The man next to me asked if was okay, and I tried to hide my
mumbled yes as I unpacked my necessities from my bag—red pen and huge stack of
papers to grade. Still strangers, we both buckled our seatbelts as we listened
to the announcements, first in English then in Arabic. Why would those stupid
tears not stop? I knew the kids would be fine, but the reality of missing
Thanksgiving finally hit me. And I wished with everything I had at that moment
that I could stop the plane and find a quick flight back to the familiarity of
Arizona. A quiet “Excuse me” forced me to turn to the left and make eye contact
with this stranger. “My name is Go-tem. Please. Take this.” In his extended hand
was his handkerchief. I thought of politely refusing so I could retreat back
into my comfortable and private bubble, but something inside me changed my
mind. I took the handkerchief and wiped my wet face. Over the next few minutes,
we exchanged stories. He was flying to Bangalore for the first time in three
years to surprise his mother and father. I could see the joy in his face as he
predicted the surprise. Suddenly, I wanted a quick detour to see their reunion.
I returned his handkerchief with a heartfelt thank you for this stranger placed
in my path that night.

Red-eye flights are singular experiences—first a meal and
then all the cabin lights go out and you sleep in a room of strangers. I tucked
my pillow between the wall and the seat, inserted my earplugs and placed my eye
mask, and snuggled under the skimpy blanket and my jacket, hoping to sleep. An
hour later (which felt like minutes, as sleep on a red-eye flight can only
feel), a weird, jerky motion entered my consciousness. I don’t know how long I
hovered in that hazy, questioning “Where am I and what is going on state?” but
when I was fully conscious, panic set in. Something was wrong with Gothem.

What do I do?

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean in the middle of the night
in a silent, dark, sleeping airplane, and the kind almost stranger who had
shared his handkerchief with me was obviously having a seizure. I quickly
wrapped my arms around him and tried to calm him, but this was my first
experience with a seizure, and I didn’t know what to do. For a few seconds I sat
there with my arms wrapped around a stranger, praying he would stop shaking.
When that didn’t happen, I pushed the call button then called out, “Help! This
man is having a seizure!” Most of the plane was sleeping with earplugs and
couldn’t hear me, but Brad awoke quickly and jumped from his window seat across
his sleeping seat mate to help me.

The rest from that moment is a blur—flight attendants
materializing, the plane still unconscious of the crisis, checking a wristband
with the word “epilepsy” emblazoned across the top, and me holding a shaking
man, hoping no further emergency would develop. Soon enough, Gothem stopped
shaking and he slowly returned to consciousness. Flight attendants took reports
and assessed his condition, then disappeared. My heartbeat slowed back to
normal and the adrenaline stopped pumping. What a weird experience.

A few minutes later, Gothem tapped me on the shoulder. “So
sorry to bother you. Thank you for that. So sorry. Thank you.”

Moments later, both of us tucked ourselves back into our
travel cocoons to resume sleeping for the rest of our journey. Within a few
hours, our paths parted forever at the Abu Dhabi airport, Gothem headed to the
familiarity of his hometown and me at the beginning of a great adventure in
Pakistan. I wish I had a photo to remember Gothem’s face; instead his story
will take its place among the hundreds of lessons I’ve learned in my life. This
lesson was simple:

Life is full of small moments. Fill them with as much
kindness as we can.

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I’m Jenny, chief administrator here at the Sanatorium. I bake
the best chocolate chip cookies, dabble in interior design and photography, haunt the local auctions, and passionately love
my family. Oh, and I also teach high school part time. I’m kinda tired, but I love it here.